The House on Mermaid Point

by Wendy Wax

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Avery said. “What if there is no homeowner? What if it’s just a ruse to strand us on a deserted island for some kind of Survivor thing? I wouldn’t put it past Lisa Hogan to force us to swim through shark-infested waters to escape.”

  “Shark infested?” Maddie looked to Hudson.

  “Well, it is the Atlantic Ocean,” he said almost apologetically. “But most species don’t mess with you if you don’t mess with them.”

  “That’s so reassuring,” Nicole snapped.

  “The barracuda now, well, that’s a different story,” he said with a straight face.

  “You can vote me off first,” Nicole offered. “I’ll wait for the rest of you at the Cheeca Lodge. Or the Moorings Village. I think those are the closest five-star accommodations.”

  They passed two Adirondack chairs planted on the sand and a hammock stretched between two palm trees on the southeastern edge of the island. There was a stretch of retaining wall, then the beach disappeared again, swallowed by massive mangroves that blotted out whatever lay behind them.

  “Some pruning wouldn’t hurt,” Deirdre observed as they passed.

  “Unlikely,” Hudson said.

  “So no one ever trims a mangrove?” Nicole asked.

  “Not when anybody’s looking,” he replied. “And definitely not in broad daylight. They’re protected.”

  The retention wall continued along the southern side of the island and a long dock ran parallel to it. It broke for a simple wooden boathouse that jutted out from the island. Its back half stood firmly on land; its front supports were pilings driven into the ocean floor.

  Two boats were cradled well above the waterline. A second floor spanned across the boathouse, its front porch suspended over the water.

  The retaining wall and narrow dock stretched westward. “This is a man-made channel,” Hudson explained, pointing to the long strip of dark blue water. “It runs all the way to the bridge, cuts south, and then meets up with the main channel. You can’t cut straight north or south because it’s so shallow.”

  Two ungainly houseboats tied farther down the dock bobbed in their wake as Hudson nosed the boat in and cut the engine. It had barely glided to a stop before he jumped out holding a line. Quickly and efficiently he secured the boat.

  Troy and Anthony tied up nearby then planted themselves on the retaining wall so that they could shoot the rest of them disembarking and unloading.

  The house they’d spied from the ride in couldn’t be seen from here. Their greeting committee consisted of a small group of chickens and one supervisory rooster, which took one look at them and continued pecking away at the ground.

  “How did chickens get on this island?” Nicole asked as Hudson handed her out of the boat.

  “They’re all over the Keys,” Maddie said, not even needing to pull out a guidebook for this one. “It started back with the Cubans and their cockfighting. It was illegal, so when the feds came to investigate, they let their birds loose and pretended they were pets. More than a few of them managed to reproduce.”

  They gathered in the shade of a stand of palm trees, trying to maintain as much distance as possible from the band of chickens.

  “Is anyone home? I mean, are you sure the owner’s here?” Avery asked.

  “Yes,” Hudson said. “At least he was when I left. Why don’t we go ahead and stack everything here in the shade. I’m sure someone will be down soon.”

  It was after six P.M. and a relatively mild eighty degrees, but the humidity turned the air hot and sticky. By the time they’d unloaded, even Deirdre, who normally looked cool and collected in every situation, was sweating. “This island could use a bellman.”

  “Things are pretty laid-back down here,” Hudson said. “You really don’t need much more than shorts, T-shirts, a bathing suit, and a pair of flip-flops.”

  “Which would be why people don’t normally bring that much stuff with them,” Avery said, eyeing Deirdre’s pile of matching designer luggage, now stacked halfway up the base of a palm tree.

  The buzz of insects, the rustle of palm fronds in the salty breeze, and an occasional cluck of a chicken were the only sounds that disturbed the quiet. Maddie couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced this kind of silence—or even if she ever had.

  They were milling about in the shade when they heard the soft thud of footsteps approaching. A young man with exceptionally dark hair and a strong face appeared in the clearing. He wore khaki cargo shorts and a crisp white polo. Somewhere in his early thirties, he was taller, younger, and way better looking than Hervé Villechaize, who’d played Tattoo and opened each Fantasy Island episode. The first words out of his mouth were not “De plane! De plane!”

  “Hello,” he said with a nod and a smile. “I’m Thomas. Thanks for coming.”

  • • •

  Avery stepped forward, shook the proffered hand, and made the introductions.

  “We’re thrilled to have the opportunity to work on your island.”

  He flashed another smile. “I’m really glad the network sent you, but I’m afraid the island’s not mine. It belongs to my father.”

  They watched him expectantly. There was something familiar about his chiseled face and broad-shouldered build, but Avery couldn’t quite figure out why or call up a name.

  “Is your father here?”

  “Absolutely.” His smile dimmed. “If you come with me I’ll introduce you.” He turned to Hudson. “Would you put their luggage on . . . I mean, in their . . . rooms?” He and Hudson exchanged a furtive glance that didn’t do anything for Avery’s comfort level.

  The path was too narrow to walk abreast, so they followed in single file through the jungle-like overgrowth.

  “Next job I’m definitely bringing a machete,” Nicole muttered. She swatted at her bare arm. “And a case of bug spray.”

  They came into a clearing, which was dominated by the large two-story structure they’d spotted from the water. The front of the house faced inland. Broad stone steps led up to an expansive raised porch that encircled the first floor. Ceiling fans spun lazily above several rickety rocking chairs. A small wing protruded to the left. A stone chimney rose from the right. The house was topped by a metal roof.

  Close up, the house was far larger than they’d been able to discern from the water and in far worse shape. The board-and-batten siding was not just devoid of paint but had been badly pummeled by the elements. Like a boxer who’d gone one too many rounds, the house almost seemed to be standing upright from sheer force of will. Or possibly from habit.

  “Good God.” Deirdre emitted a small groan of dismay at the weather-beaten wood and the gaps from missing planks that dotted the sagging porch. Stones were missing from the foundation wall and the front steps. Much of the window trim was either gnawed on or rotten. The single-hung windows were salt caked and grimy, practically begging to be put out of their misery.

  But Avery loved the home’s clean, simple lines on sight, and the way it had been designed to fit into its surroundings. Whoever this high-profile individual was, he had not been worried about impressing others.

  Avery headed for the front steps eager to see the interior, but Thomas called out, “The pool’s around this way.” He led them around the house and out to the concrete pool deck that jutted toward the ocean.

  The pool and its deck were empty. But they commanded an uninterrupted view over the beach and the small tidal pool to the ocean, which shimmered now in shades of turquoise, green, and blue. In the distance she spied the tip of some sort of structure.

  “That’s Alligator Reef Lighthouse,” Thomas said. “The Gulf Stream flows by just beyond it.”

  Before Avery could form a reply a man stepped out of the shadowed pavilion. He was even taller and broader than Thomas, with powerful shoulders, a lean but muscled body, and a
deeply tanned face that was as still and craggy as a mountain range.

  His shoulder-length hair was dark and straight with streaks of gray, his eyebrows thick and black as his hair must once have been. His face appeared cleaved in two by the hatchet nose that was bracketed by mile-high cheekbones.

  The faded T-shirt he wore hugged his abs and strained across his chest. A thin white stick dangled from one corner of his mouth. Even standing completely still he seemed to swagger.

  When he began to move toward them it was with an unexpected if predatory grace; a mountain lion come to see who’d ventured too close to his cave.

  Avery resisted the urge to fall back a step. Beside her Deirdre snapped to attention, a level of awareness normally reserved for members of the press and those who might further her ambitions. Something akin to a whimper left Maddie’s lips.

  “Be still, my heart,” Nicole murmured as he drew closer.

  Kyra had already hoisted her video camera onto her shoulder and was shooting the famous one’s approach. A small smile quirked at her lips, which was the only part of her face that could be seen.

  “I know I have to be dreaming this.” Maddie grasped Avery’s hand. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. “I had the hugest crush on him for . . . ever.”

  “I thought he was dead,” Nicole whispered as he drew closer.

  Avery had never seen eyes quite so black. The tiniest pinprick of what might be amusement flickered in them. Or maybe it was irritation. “He looks pretty alive to me.”

  Maddie clutched Avery’s hand more tightly.

  He came to a stop directly in front of them, clearly aware of but not at all intimidated by the cameras. Slowly he removed the small white stick from his mouth; whatever had been attached to it was gone.

  With an ironic smile, the man formerly known as William the Wild bent slightly at the waist in what might be construed as a bow. His eyes never left them.

  The voice that had sold millions of records said, “I’m William Hightower. Welcome to Mermaid Point.”

  Chapter Six

  He wasn’t sure what to do with the damned stick now that the entire group was staring at him. After the last six months of quiet—much of it spent avoiding the bars and people he’d partied with in them—these people’s very presence was an onslaught to the senses. His days had been long and ludicrously quiet, the solitude punctuated only by the hours out on the flats fishing, endless laps in the pool when he could no longer sit still, and the AA meetings over near the library.

  The quiet had been so profound that had he not emptied his house, and yes, his grounds, of everything that might provide a high of any kind he would have been driven to drink, to pop, to snort . . . something, anything that would make him feel like himself again. But these strangers weren’t like the fans looking to interact for a minute or two before they were cleared from his path. The thought of having them here in his face and on his island made him feel even more alone. And Tommy thought he was going to open his home to a never-ending string of such strangers? He’d off himself first. Or get a little lighter fluid and a match and set the whole island on fire. Or maybe he’d just let them fix it up so he could sell it and . . . it was the “what” that stopped him. What the hell were sixty-one-year-old former rockers supposed to do with themselves when their careers were over? No wonder Mick Jagger was still on the road.

  He schooled his features as the introductions were made and did his best to stay tuned in. The small Kewpie doll with the major rack who said she was an architect and in charge of the renovation was named Avery. The older, better-dressed version of her was going to handle the interior design. There was something about this Deirdre and her appraising gaze that had him remembering a mother and daughter he’d once had in the back of his plane. Back when he’d been a frequent flyer in the Mile High Club. But these two didn’t look like they played all that well together. And when was the last time he’d even thought about a three-way?

  The woman holding the little boy was slightly above average height and had dark brown hair that brushed her shoulders. Her brown eyes went wide the moment she saw his face, and her cheeks turned a pretty pink when she told him her name was “M-M-M . . . Madeline.” When she shook his hand her cheeks deepened from pink to red, but her lips turned up in a smile before she dropped her gaze to the little boy, whom she introduced as her grandson.

  The little boy gave him a blinding smile that he would have had to be totally wasted to resist. The boy’s mother looked to be somewhere in her early twenties, tall and long limbed. Her dark hair had mostly escaped the knot it had been tied in. She had a camera propped on her shoulder and although she had Madeline’s even features, she didn’t stutter at all when she was introduced and either had no idea who he was or simply didn’t care.

  The expensive-looking redhead watched him almost as carefully as he watched them, but there was no sexual vibe coming off her. Her name seemed vaguely familiar but he had no idea why since he’d informed his son that he didn’t want or need bios on the crew who would be handling this renovation that he didn’t want or need. He had resisted so much as Googling their show, Do Over. As if there were any such thing. And he had managed to lose the article Tommy had emailed him.

  “You didn’t bring a mother or daughter with you,” he said to the redhead, who seemed to be the only one who’d come solo.

  “Only because I don’t have either.” The redhead didn’t seem at all perturbed by this fact or by his question. Unlike his son, who winced at the comment. “How about you? Any other family members or wives present?” she asked.

  Will wasn’t sure if she was flirting or simply curious. Good Lord, he was out of practice. Or maybe it was just the novelty of interacting with women without even an ounce of alcohol in his bloodstream.

  “No,” Tommy injected into the silence. “As far as we know, I’m it.”

  Will said nothing. He didn’t want a gaggle of females—not even attractive ones in a variety of ages and sizes—in his home. Didn’t want them changing things. Chattering at him. If they were looking for jovial or whatever the hell an innkeeper was supposed to be, they’d come to the wrong island.

  “If you’re going to own a bed-and-breakfast you’re going to have to get used to having guests,” Tommy had said reasonably, as if having strangers tromping around your home would ever be reasonable.

  But Will was not going to share his personal space with anyone until he absolutely had to. Until the first paying guest arrived, he’d hope for some last-minute reprieve. Or a lightning strike of luck, like the one that had yanked him out of obscurity and poverty and put him on that first rung on the climb to the top of the charts.

  The network had wanted the Do Over cast in the house with him while they renovated. His refusal was the only argument he’d won. Once, no one, not even his son, would have argued with him. Those were the days—when people jumped to please him. And everyone agreed with pretty much any stupid-ass thing he said.

  The little boy’s mother pulled a plastic cup and a baggie of little cheese things out of her camera bag and handed them to her son. “You can put him down, Mom. He can get pretty heavy.”

  The moment the boy’s feet hit the ground he toddled toward the pool, clutching the snack and the drink. Will watched his progress and the way his mother and grandmother stayed close but somehow managed to give him space.

  “Poo!” the little boy said. “Sim!”

  The older woman smiled as the boy wrapped an arm around her thigh. Not the slightly nervous one she’d offered him when they’d been introduced, but a pure and unself-conscious thing that lit her entire face. “Yes,” she said to her grandson. “I bet Mr. Hightower will let you swim sometime. But you never go near the pool without an adult. Never.”

  His son nudged him. “Will,” he mouthed.

  “Will,” Will said before he could decide not to. “You can all call me Will.
”

  The little boy buried his face against his grandmother’s leg. Will looked at the pool area, seeing it for the first time in a coon’s age through other eyes. Tommy had brought a cleaning crew out and the pool water sparkled. The Jacuzzi and the decking had been scrubbed, too, but it was hard to ignore the cracks in the concrete or the missing decorative tiles. The iron outdoor furniture was scarred and peeling, the cushions ripped and faded. It had been years since anyone had tried to tame the jungle that crept ever closer to the house and the pool deck. A cleaning crew had been all over the house, too, with instructions to eliminate the cobwebs and dust bunnies that Will had never even noticed back when daylight had been for sleeping through and nighttime had been spent so bleary-eyed he wouldn’t have seen an alligator if it were soaking in his bathtub.

  Without the cotton wool of alcohol wrapped around him, this place looked as old and tired as he felt.

  In the pavilion he stood silent, letting the breeze wash over him while they studied the built-in outdoor kitchen that had once been state-of-the-art. A couple of wooden tables and chairs sat on the sand-covered concrete slab floor. The place was wired for sound, but he wasn’t even sure if the system worked. A massive fan and light fixture hung from the center of the vaulted ceiling. It circled, emitting a loud squeak each time it completed a rotation.

  “The ceiling is tongue-and-groove Dade County pine,” the older blonde, called Deirdre, said, all excited. “This would be a great spot to serve breakfast and maybe even casual lunches.”

  He had no response for this. His eye caught Madeline Singer’s and they contemplated each other until someone, he had no idea who, cleared their throat.

  “Can we go ahead and see the house now?” the young blond one asked.